


Orthodoxy

by bloodwork



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, M/M, Surreal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-03-20 05:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13711050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodwork/pseuds/bloodwork
Summary: tyrell wants to become a god.elliot already is one.





	1. sickafantic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a godthing soaked in burning ivory kernel panic and it just keeps motherfucking repeating

« He knew. He fucking _knew._ »

Darlene was sitting at the crappy fold-out table which was paired with an equally crappy folding chair that gave ever so slightly whenever anyone sat in it. Her hands were folded around a mug of shitty coffee from the old Keurig on the counter. As usual, she was watching her brother have a mild breakdown an hour before sunrise, too late for her to go to sleep even if she'd been able to but not late enough to start doing things that normal morning people would do. Of course, morning people actually slept beforehand, which Darlene hadn't.

"For Chrissake, Elliot," she said. "It's a figure of goddamn  _speech_. He doesn't know any more than anyone else."

She took a long sip of coffee. She knew she'd have time to keep talking. When Elliot got like this, most of his dialogue was internal.

Sighing, she continued, her voice less biting this time around, filled with the exhaustion that perpetually hung around her. "Humans are weird like that, you know? Obsessed with being something bigger. With power, or whatever." The irony of  _her_ saying this wasn't lost on her, and she stonily met Elliot's eyes to show him that in case he wanted to judge her for it.

To his credit, Elliot  _didn't_ say anything about it, though that might have had something to do with his mild panic attack. « Even if it was, I don't know, a coincidence-- »

"You don't believe in coincidences."

Elliot looked at her meaningfully.

"Right. 'kay. Continue." She brought the mug to her lips again but didn't drink, instead letting the warmth settle in.

« It's too close. He's getting too close. And it's my fault, I never should have said that, about looking at what's above you. It's me. I ruined everything and now I have to spend all that energy and reverse all the damage I did. »

"It's not like you won't have someone with you," said Darlene quietly. "I'll be here. I can take care of you when you get like that, Elliot. I know how." She rolled her eyes again. "Besides, what did that 'red wheelbarrow' shit mean, anyway? Isn't that the name of that crappy barbecue place on Brockman?"

« It's a poem or something. » Elliot's 'voice' had already become distracted as he started mentally planning the retcon. More of his thoughts bled through when he communicated like this, so Darlene was used to him being more talkative when he did. When he got quiet even this way she knew he wasn't going to be responsive to much else. Briefly, she thought about goodnaturedly busting his balls about the not-quite-telepathy he tended to use with her by default; it had always not-exactly-secretly frustrated her that she was unable to use it too. But bits and pieces of images and concepts were coming through their connection, so she didn't say anything. Even if she didn't understand them because they were too abstract (Elliot's thought process was usually more like a vague collection of Rorschachs than anything comprehensible), it felt nice, somehow, to share something. She knew he could close the connection entirely if he wanted to. He was beyond powerful enough. But he left it open as his mind moved a million miles a minute, and she was content to sit there in silence with him, staring out the window, not sure what she was expecting to happen but comforted by the quiet, dark shape of her brother on the couch across the room, even if every day she hated herself for not being enough like him to be able to understand him.

After a long time, the sun finally began to rise, painting the Manhattan sky with deep pinks and purples. Darlene had finished her coffee a while ago; like every other time before, her body would not allow her to poison it with drugs, not even with caffeine, so drinking it was a futile attempt to fit in with either one world or the other. The empty mug rested in the sink as she got up to draw the blinds closed.

Elliot made a noncommittal sound letting her knew he had finished planning his retcon of some of the parts of reality that no one would miss.

Darlene stood there, slightly turned towards him, arms crossed.

"So that's it, I guess."

He didn't say anything. Now that natural light was soaking the apartment, she could see that he was sitting facing her, his side pressed against the back of the couch. She had thought she had a problem with wearing layers of clothes she tried to disappear into, but Elliot constantly receded into his trademark black hoodie so easily that sometimes the only way she could tell he was in there was because of his glittering ivory irises, which at times were only glittering because of the soft glow that only she and people like her could see.

He was watching her with those eyes now. Timid, but not afraid. The perpetual stare of a prey animal when not being actively hunted.

Even though he was powerful enough to kill any predator without even thinking about it.

"Like, I don't care." Darlene was aware that neither of them believed that. "It's just, you know. I don't want to quit on things." She looked out at the sunrisen sky. Paused. Then, "I kind of wanted to see what would happen. If things would get better. Jesus knows Cisco deserves that, at least."

« I already told you, I'll keep him safe if you want-- »

"Doesn't fix a broken society, Elliot."

She didn't look at him this time.

It did mean something to her, that he offered in the first place. She'd trade every god-shard in her to make sure that he was safe and happy. And, somewhere inside, she knew that Elliot  _did_ have an eye on him, even though she hadn't taken him up on the offer. Both of them knew that losing Cisco right now would break her. So she wasn't worried about him getting killed or anything, even though he probably lived in fear of that every day -- the second an attempt was made on Cisco's life, Elliot would be there, even if not physically, to nullify it.

But saving someone from a bullet without addressing the slow-acting poison they're succumbing to still finds a way to make their life miserable every fucking day.

"What were you even trying to do?" she asked him.

Elliot's eyes drifted over to the wall. He stared at a chip in the paint long enough that it began painting itself over again. Once it had finished, Elliot said, « To fix things. »

"Like, end-times style? Destroying the world so we all get a shiny new one or whatever?"

« I was thinking more like Noach and the ark. » He glanced at her with a barely-visible smile on his lips. « Drown all the shitty people, start again once they're gone. »

"That'd be nice." Darlene slid a cigarette out of the box in her pocket and raised a finger to it once it was balanced in her mouth. A sphere of white fire flickered into existence over her fingertip and she lit the cigarette with it, then vanished the fire. "Too bad we're not ageless entities that created the world and hold supreme judgment. Just a couple fucked-up kids from New Jersey who won the cosmic fucking roulette." She exhaled long and slow. "One of us, anyway."

She could almost hear Elliot trying to decide if he should tell her once again that her body would automatically purge the poison from the nicotine, and ultimately go with no. She knew. He knew that she knew. Parts of him still wanted to be the knowledgeable big brother anyway. And she was sure that he had to remind himself constantly that the horrible effects of smoking that he'd seen humans fall victim to didn't apply to her.

"So," said Darlene, "is Tyrell Wellick the Noach in this situation?"

The silence between them then was a palpable silence, unlike the comfortable silence they often were fine to exist in together. Darlene heard Elliot's mouth open, then close as he thought about what to say. And using his human voice so that she wouldn't catch any of his thoughts related to Tyrell over their connection? She smiled in spite of herself. It felt good to have caught Elliot unaware.

"It's okay if he is," she said. "Noach was probably pretty fucked up, too."

A thought slipped into her mind -- not her own, she could tell by the distinct feeling of it in her head.  _I want to try and sleep._

She was quiet for a minute. Then she broke into a satisfied smile and pulled the cigarette out of her mouth, incinerating it into nothing in the palm of her hand. "And you need your little sister to help you, got it." She took the blanket down off the back of the couch as Elliot unfolded himself from the tight ball he'd been curled into for hours now and laid down next to him, his arms slowly coming around to hold her just firmly enough that she felt secure, but not trapped. "Hey," she said as she brought the blanket over both of them, "you're getting pretty good at making me get, like, actual words out of that abstract stuff."

« We can try and work more on your telepathy. I know you can do it. It'll just take a little more time and practice. »

"Yeah, yeah, thanks for the vote of confidence, Master Yoda." Darlene was still smiling, though, which only Elliot and Cisco seemed to be able to make her do genuinely. "Anyway, don't freak yourself out too much about Tyrell. I know this is probably weird for me to say, but it's okay to give a shit about someone. Even humans. And like I said ... they are balls-off-the-wall  _obsessed_ with power and with being gods. Especially Tyrell. He has no idea about anything." She reached up and pressed her fingers gently against his wrist. "Okay?"

She could feel him forcing his heartbeat slower and slower. « Okay. » Slower, slower, slower, until he could plausibly be mistaken for dead. « 'night, Darlene. »

« Ｂｏｎｓｏｉｒ， Ｅｌｌｉｏｔ．»


	2. MEZUZAH

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> if five/nine never happened would we be happier or would we just be re-sedated

Tyrell Wellick came to in the middle of an E Corp meeting, which was massively strange, because he was absolutely positive that he had been fired from E Corp.

He must have looked as confused as he felt, because multiple people at the long, suddenly-intimidating table were staring at him with question marks written on their faces.

The man holding the meeting -- Kenneth Lay, Tyrell recognized him -- had paused, halfway turned to his presentation. Something about shipping records, but it was such a vague slide, and Tyrell was so out of it, that he couldn't figure out what exactly about them they were discussing.

"Are you alright, Mr. Wellick?" Lay asked, though not in accusation.

"I ... yes," said Tyrell, swallowing.

Had the past few weeks been a dream? Was he finally starting to come completely unhinged? And if they  _had_ somehow been a dream, against logic and reason, some dream so vivid that he'd lived entire  _weeks_ in the span of a few seconds, did that mean that he hadn't ... that he hadn't met ...

His eyes gravitated to the clock in the bottom right corner of the screen displayed on the projector.

5/12/15.

And here E Corp was. And it felt so incredibly wrong. He hadn't traveled back in time. He hadn't been dreaming, to his knowledge. But something,  _something_ big was supposed to have happened on May ninth. He had no idea what. But it was something and it hadn't happened and his fingers were shaking.

He stood up. And he left the meeting, headed like a sheep to the slaughter.

* * *

 He considered going home to Joanna. Considered it for a long time, standing on the sidewalk, his back pressed against the wall of the Red Wheelbarrow. It wouldn't be far. Only fifteen minutes, if the F and the C were running on schedule. (He didn't trust himself to drive right now.) He could be home in no time, back within four familiar walls where he could ground himself, stop the tremors in his hands from getting any worse.

But that felt ... wrong. The familiarity that would usually have comforted him now felt almost as if it was someone else's entirely. As if he would walk into his home and find it occupied by a different Tyrell, one that had been living his life this whole time -- as if  _he_ was the fake Tyrell, the delusional intruder.

He wasn't sure why he was so convinced of that. It sounded ridiculous. But then again, so was apparently being completely unaware of the events of the past few weeks, or at least having some kind of modified memory of them.

His shaking hand slipped into his pocket. He wanted to call Joanna. Wanted to. Wanted to. Wanted to.

Couldn't.

He removed his hand from his pocket and tipped his head back to the sky. The unbroken perfect blue of it seemed wrong, too. Like the uninterrupted, casual way of things was nothing but a facsimile to keep him from thinking too hard about the churning paranoia he was feeling. He wished there was at leas one cloud. Just one, to make it feel like the world was still real.

Tyrell pushed off of the wall of the Red Wheelbarrow and started walking down the sidewalk. He had to. If he stayed here, staring up at the sky like this, he felt like he might start crying.

About two minutes into his walk, Tyrell put his right foot down in front of Bo Hai Dumpling Town and his left foot came down about eight feet ahead of that.

He almost didn't notice it. In fact, it took effort for him to keep thinking for more than a split second about the reality that he'd fucking  _teleported_ , even if it'd only been fifteen feet. His mind kept slipping away from it, like an errand he kept having to remind himself to do because he refused to write it down. It was just like those continuous lapses of memory, except that they were occurring simultaneously to him "remembering". He turned around; sure enough, Bo Hai was eight feet behind him, even though he'd only taken one step.

Cautiously, he tried walking back the way he'd come. At a certain point, his foot came down where it was supposed to, and his next step happened back in front of Bo Hai.

He repeated this several more times -- thankfully, there was almost no one on this part of East Broadway in the middle of the work day, and those who were didn't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary. He wasn't sure if that was upsetting, because it was yet another confusing piece of the puzzle that didn't fit any other pieces, or reassuring, because it confirmed that at least something was  _probably_ happening here that wasn't rooted in reality.

Then again, he guessed he could be going completely insane. After all, he'd apparently been completely unaware of at least some of the events of this past few weeks, so it wasn't out of the realm of possibility.

What he  _really_ wanted to do right now (besides wake up and have everything be normal) was to be able to get inside this area that was blocked off to the rest of the universe. He looked up at the rust-red landing and the slightly foreboding door it led to, then up at the windows. Nothing of interest. It looked just like any other shithole apartment in Manhattan.

He reached an arm out towards the area that seemed not to exist on this plane of reality. He wasn't sure where the boundary started -- until his fingers got close to it and he began to feel an intense pins-and-needles sensation. At first, it was just uncomfortable, but the closer he got to the sphere of nonexistence, the more it hurt, hurt  _intensely_ , until every instinct within him was  _screaming_ to bring his hand back, away from the unreality he was so close to touching.

Tyrell Wellick had never been very good at denying his impulses. And now it resulted in him staring at his hand, at the outstretched fingers, which no longer existed.

At first, he didn't even notice that anything was wrong. The pain had already been so intense that the new pain, initially, didn't register. And with his hand stretched out in front of him, he couldn't see very well what had happened until he noticed that the light reflecting off of his fingernails was gone ... because his fingernails were gone.

He pulled his hand back. Every finger on it aside from the thumb had been severed cleanly down to the top knuckle.

The parts that had been severed had simply disappeared from existence, but the rest of the fingers, the ones that were still attached, hadn't been cauterized. They were oozing large amounts of blood, painting the sidewalk beneath him a dark brownish-red.

It hurt. It hurt a  _lot_. Tyrell was just having a hard time processing it. He kept staring down at his hand as if the fingertips would magically regrow the same way they'd vanished. He also kept thinking about how his next attempt was going to be putting half his body inside the unreality. If he had, he'd be nothing but half a corpse right now, twitching horribly in the afterthroes of an incredibly sudden death.

Anyway, the pain was kind of getting to him now, so he found himself backing against the leftside fence of the Bo Hai, then sliding down into a sitting position, still staring at his hand, but with his knees drawn up so no one could see the blood soaking his dress shirt, turning it an ugly mahogany, which was at least more reassuring than only soaking his dress pants, which were black and would have been difficult to see much blood on. He didn't need to feel more confused than he already was.

About the time his shock rolled around to competence ( _I should get to the hospital, losing this blood can't be good, at least, I'm pretty certain_ ), he felt a presence in front of him. He didn't remember her walking up, but at this point, she could've dropped in from an alien spaceship hovering just above the buildings and he wouldn't have noticed.

"Oh,  _you're_ the one that woke me up?"

The voice was high, but not in the annoying, perky way. Instead, it sounded sure of itself, each word seeming to be measured, if only by the thoughts before it that took up maybe two seconds at most. Tyrell forced himself to look up at her -- for all intents and purposes, she looked  _mostly_ normal, a twentysomething with dark brown hair that fell around her face in waves and spread lightly on her shoulders, wearing a flannel that seemed at least a size too big if not two, and boxer briefs. If Tyrell had been able to process it, he would have noticed no one seemed to realize she was standing there, or that she existed at all.

"You're just a human," she continued, apparently amused.

Tyrell held up his mangled hand, and the girl before him gasped.

" _Oh_ ," she said, and instantly scooped him up in a bridal carry, as if he weighed nothing more than a very small child. "Don't worry," she told him as he felt her bolt up the stairs of the apartment, the unreality apparently not affecting him while she was carrying him. "I'll get you to Elliot. Elliot!  _Hey, Elliot!"_

Tyrell was vaguely aware of the sound of doors opening and closing, but he was fading fast now, and as he slid out of consciousness, he held onto that one comforting name, the one he'd felt would fix all of this strange, messed-up world.

_Oh, there you are, Elliot Alderson._


	3. des(perRati^OooN

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> how long can you keep lying to yourself that you're not lonely

"Come  _onnnn_ , you guys. It's not like  _I_ was the one to chop off his fingers. Why do you both have such weird friends, anyway?"

That was the girl who had carried him. Tyrell remembered her voice, even though he couldn't seem to open his eyes. Meanwhile, his brain was going about three million miles a second. Part of him was glad that he couldn't open his eyes; he didn't want to see his hand in the condition it had been in last. Right now, it didn't hurt, but that usually happened as an effect of shock, right? Either that, or he'd been given some kind of anesthetic, which didn't solve the horrible problem of not having any fingers on that hand.

Should have used his non-dominant hand, he thought. What an idiot. When he went back to work, it was going to be a hell of an adjustment period.

Wait, was he seriously thinking about  _work_ right now? When he'd just had his fingers severed by a patch of unreality in front of Elliot's h--

Oh.  _Elliot._

That thought alone would have his eyes snapping open if his injuries had been less severe.

He was in Elliot's house.

He remembered meeting Elliot. It had been at that cyber security firm, Allsafe. Right. Strangely, though, he couldn't recall  _how_ they'd met; only that they  _had_. He couldn't remember what words they'd exchanged or even what room they'd been in, but he did remember Elliot's face. The quietness in it. The way he'd felt like he could stare at it for a hundred years and not know what Elliot was thinking about. He could recall those things perfectly. So it seemed a little strange that he couldn't do the same for where he'd met him.

In the grand scheme of things, it probably wasn't that big a deal, but with the other things that had gone on today, Tyrell thought it was probably good to keep a mental checklist of the extremely unusual events he was experiencing.

"He's not my friend," Tyrell heard Elliot say, in response to the girl that had carried him here.

"Sure he is. He came to your house, didn't he?"

"And therein lies the problem," said a different female voice. This one was much more theatrical, Tyrell could tell instantly. Like she spent her whole life trying to make things seem as dramatic as possible. "He wasn't  _supposed_ to come here. He wasn't even supposed to remember Elliot existed. That was the whole thing with Elliot being sick fora few days, you know? Anyway, what is this guy, dead? I'm not sensing anyth--  _JESUS FUCKING CHRIST._ "

Tyrell had chosen that moment to try with all the strength he'd been building up to open his eyes. Sure enough, they lifted open and he found himself staring up into the wide eyes of another dark-haired girl, though this one resembled Elliot in the way that they both seemed gaunt, almost  _haunted,_ by a nightmare Tyrell couldn't hope to understand.

"Please, fucking  _warn_ a person next time you do that shit," she said. She recovered quick, but Tyrell could tell she was trying to figure out how much he'd heard.

The other two were much calmer. Tyrell looked over about a foot to the left to see Elliot kneeling there beside the other girl, looking exactly the same as he remembered, hood of his black hoodie pulled up around his face, his way of shutting the world out. His greenish-grey eyes glittered at Tyrell the way that they always did, to everyone. Tyrell wondered if that caused a lot of unwanted interactions, if people thought that Elliot was really interested in what other people had to say.

Tyrell knew he wasn't. That was why he wanted so badly for Elliot's eyes to  _actually_ glitter for him, for Elliot to  _actually_ be interested in what he had to say.

Tyrell craved approval, but he had never craved anyone's approval as much as he did the meaningless little fuck's from Allsafe.

"Hello, Elliot," he said, smiling.

Elliot didn't answer. The girl who'd carried him did, though. "See? He knows your name. And your house! And you're gonna tell me you guys aren't friends?"

Elliot didn't say anything about them not being friends this time. Maybe he was only comfortable saying that when he thought Tyrell was unconscious. Though Elliot had said some pretty out-of-place things before, especially to Tyrell. Was he trying to act like they hadn't met? Like they hadn't spent time around each other?

What if all of that  _had_ been a dream?

(All of what?)

Oh g-d, he was fucking insane. It had probably started a while ago and jumped way up after he'd ... taken care ... of Sharon. Although, if he was crazy, had that even happened? Was Sharon still dead? But he still had a job at E Corp. He should have spent more time there, figuring out what was the same and what was different. At least then he'd have  _something_ to go on.

Well, he could check one thing right now. Swallowing nervously, he lifted his hand from his side and looked at it.

There was a—

What?

He was staring back at the three of them, his hands by his sides. What had he just been doing? He strained to remember ... oh, right, his hand. Strange, because he thought he'd already lifted it to look at it, but he couldn't recall what it'd looked like, so he guessed he hadn't. Swallowing nervously, he lifted his hand from his side and—

He was staring back at the three of them, his hands by his sides.

Swallowing nervously, he lifted his hand from—

He was staring back at the three of them, his hands by his sides.

Swallowing nervously, he lifted—

He was staring back at the th—

Tyrell was breathing hard, his whole body covered in a cold sweat. In a barely contained voice, his eyes fixated on each one of them in turn, he demanded, _"What are you doing to me?!"_

"Oh," said the girl he hadn't seen before he'd woken up. "Oh, this is fucking  _bad_. This is, in the most genuine meaning of the word, a fucking  _shitshow_."

She got up and left, the door slamming behind her. Tyrell watched her go and then turned his eyes towards Elliot, who was carefully watching him with those enigmatic eyes as if  _Tyrell_ was the enigma.

"Elliot," Tyrell said, calmer now, but his voice still carrying traces of the hysteria that threatened to overtake him. "Elliot, please. I don't know what it is you're doing or how. But I need to see my hand, Elliot." No response, so Tyrell repeated,  _"Please."_

After a very long few seconds, Elliot heaved a sigh and looked away.

Swallowing nervously, he lifted his hand from his side and looked at it. The palm came into view ... the first joint of his fingers ... the second joint ... and there, at the end, his four fingertips, whole and uninjured, as if they'd never been severed at all.

He gave an extremely shaky sigh of relief.

Across the skin of the palm sides of his fingers were intermittent black bars, each just short of the width of the finger they were on, about five on each finger, slightly messy, as if someone had drawn them on, but dark enough to be mistaken as tattoos. Tyrell was fairly used to the strange happenings going on around him by now, or at least he was alright if they were minor things like this, and he studied his hand curiously, turning it this way and that in confusion.

"I fixed it," said the girl who'd carried him. "Well, sort of. You don't really have your fingers back. Those sigils are to bind your thoughts and memories of having fingers to your hand. If you try hard enough, you could probably undo the sigils. I mean, Darlene is already  _pissed_ that you can be aware of stuff you shouldn't be aware of. So undoing a sigil like that shouldn't be hard for you."

"I see. Thank you, euhm ..."

"Shayla."

"Shayla."

"I used to live next to Elliot," she said, "but I got killed."

Elliot looked sharply at her.

"What? It's true! Are you just gonna keep pretending all this stuff isn't a big deal for a human? I mean, it's  _your_ fault his fingers are gone. Don't you think he deserves to know at least some of what's going on?"

"This wasn't supposed to  _happen_ ," Elliot said in a voice that was edging on a hiss. "None of this was supposed to happen."

Tyrell had sat up by now, feeling grounded enough in reality to move like a normal person again— ironic, since not even ten seconds ago, he'd been staring at an illusion of his fingers created from his thoughts and memories. (A part of him was still convinced that this was a vivid dream. Still, though, the sensation of pain he'd felt upon losing his fingers was diminishing that part, slowly.) He watched Elliot; took in the feeling of him existing in this space beside him as a person, took in the fact that he was  _here_ , no matter where 'here' was, together with someone he remembered idolizing at some point, but wasn't sure why. There were so many things he wanted to ask, so many questions he needed answers to, so many explanations he desired. But when he began to speak, all of that fell away, and instead, what he said was ...

"Elliot."

Elliot's eyes flickered over to him, the rest of him remaining deathly still.

Tyrell smiled at him. He remembered being told that when he really cared for someone, his smiles almost looked  _sad_  — the vulnerability showing in his expression, the perfectly constructed mask softening for the very few people he opened up for. He was confident that he looked that way now, removing any lies or deception from his face, letting Elliot gain access to the true Tyrell Wellick, even if he couldn't recall why doing that was so important.

"Elliot," he said again, softly. "It's alright. It's going to be alright."

He wanted to elaborate, to assure Elliot that whatever was going on that was worrying him, that Tyrell would work to fix it, to tell him that they were on the same side, that for some reason, Elliot's happiness and comfort were incredible priorities for him, but he remained silent. How could he say any of that when his memories regarding the two of them together were full of holes and becoming scarcer by the minute? And besides, maybe it was better to let Elliot fill in the blanks himself.

"I  _promise_ it will be alright," he amended, and left it at that.

After another few long seconds, Shayla tugged gently at Tyrell's arm. "C'mon, we should leave him alone for a little bit."

She appeared to forget her own strength, because her fingers felt like they were pressing all the way to the bone, even though she was only lightly gripping him. Tyrell watched Elliot as he got up from what he could see now was a mattress on the hardwood floor and allowed Shayla to lead him out of the apartment.

"I didn't intend to cause Elliot any trouble," he said as soon as the door closed.

Shayla flashed a bright smile at him. She seemed like in life, she would have been more reserved— flirty, but quieter, for sure. Now that she was ... whatever she was ... her personality had opened up a lot more. Probably.

"It's okay," she said. "I mean, any human would be curious about what Elliot put in front of the house. You just shouldn't have been able to realize it was there. So ... Elliot's trying really hard to figure out why you could. Running sequences in his mind and all that." While she was speakig, she'd opened the door to the apartment adjacent to Elliot's. "Ya gonna come in?"

"Oh ... yes, sorry." He started to take a step in, but Shayla blocked the doorway with her arm, which felt like running into a brick wall.

At Tyrell's frustrated glare, Shayla pointed to a cylinder hanging on the doorframe next to him, about four inches high, with a kind of strangely-shaped W on it.

When Tyrell just blinked in confusion, Shayla rolled her eyes. "Don't tell me you've never seen a mezuzah before. There's  _gotta_ be Jewish people in Sweden. Well, whatever— you're supposed to kiss your fingers and then put them on the mezuzah. Or the other way, I guess, if you want. It doesn't matter."

"Oh ... sorry."

He felt like he was going to get used to saying that.

He kissed his fingers and pressed them against the mezuzah. In amusement, he wondered if it still counted, considering he'd used the fingers that didn't exist anymore. Anyway, it seemed not to matter, because Shayla had already gone inside ahead of him. He followed, looking around, though there really wasn't anything to look around at. The apartment was completely bare; not only bare, but it'd been vacuumed and cleaned as if preparing for another tenant to move in.

"Like I said," said Shayla, "I  _used_ to live here. When I was alive." She watched Tyrell take in the vacancy of the place. "I still live here, but I don't, like,  _live_ here, you know?"

"You don't need a place to sleep or anything?" Tyrell wondered aloud.

Shayla looked at him like she was explaining things to a four-year-old. "I'm  _dead_."

Okay, fair, he thought, but in all honesty, it wasn't like a dead person was supposed to be up and walking around, either, so how was he supposed to know the other rules? How was he supposed to know the rules for anything that had happened in the past three hours in general? He was still working on processing the fact that any of it was even real. He felt like he was operating on autopilot. It was the only way he was going to keep from having a panic attack. So not knowing everything about how an undead person worked was something to be expected.

"How did you ..." he started, but trailed off. Was it rude to ask someone how they'd died? It wasn't like it was a situation that arose often.

Shayla didn't appear to mind, though. "My ex-boyfriend. Well, sort of. Uh, it was complicated. He was, like, my dealer? But for the harder stuff. I did some dealing, too, but just like ... molly and things like that. He got really violent ..." She wasn't looking at him anymore. Tyrell was quiet. He was violent, too, sometimes, and he felt more aware of it than ever, watching Shayla recede into herself. "I guess he got fed up one day." Her fingers ghosted across the pale skin of her neck. "He slit my throat."

His fingers around Sharon's throat. Her body writhing underneath of him. And for what? Some ridiculous fucked-up illusion of power?

He was positive that had happened, in the holes of his memory. He could still remember the breath leaving her body.

"I'm sorry," he said. To Shayla. To Sharon. He wasn't sure.

Shayla shrugged. "It's kind of cool being dead, I guess. Like, drugs don't work anymore, so I never have to worry about that. And even though I still get really lonely and have to think about my problems a lot, and I can't use anything to forget them, Elliot is always there. Darlene too, sometimes." She realized what she'd said and gasped. "Not like  _that!"_ she insisted. "I mean, I  _was_ interested in Elliot a little, before, but he's too different ... you see how he can get, he doesn't understand the human world very much and he thinks things all run according to a script, or  _should_ , anyway. Like, it's fine, but he thinks all there is to people is what he finds out about them. I told him he was wrong, that he can't know people completely that way, that he can find out facts but not the really important stuff, so hopefully he works on it, but that's why it'd never work out between us. Well, that and the fact that I'm—"

"Deceased?"

"No! Well, yes, well, I mean, he wouldn't  _care_. Anyway, no — because I'm a mezuzah."

For what seemed like the fiftieth time that day, Tyrell's world was completely upended.

"The—The thing on the doorframe?" he stammered.

"Yup." Shayla lifted her shirt, revealing her breasts and, just above, where Tyrell assumed her heart was (or had been, or was supposed to be, or  _whatever_ ) was the same strangely-shaped W as on the mezuzah, in what looked too dark and thick to be tattoo ink, but Tyrell wasn't sure what else it could be. "So if he does things with me, it's not okay. And Elliot would never break that law." She put her shirt back down, but she could see Tyrell's bewilderment written all over his face. It made sense that he was so confused. She'd only gone through all of this a month and a half ago, and even she was still baffled sometimes, even though she was the one it had happened to. "When I got murdered," she explained, "Elliot held onto my soul. There aren't many things powerful enough to hold a human soul, but I guess a mezuzah is one of them, because I woke up to Elliot asking me how I felt, and if I hated him for doing what he did. I don't think I do. No one can see me in this form, so no one can hurt me — well, Elliot and Darlene can see me, obviously ... and, I guess, you." She cocked her head questioningly. "Hey, are you  _sure_ you don't know why you can see and do all these things you shouldn't be able to?"

What was she expecting him to say? He'd ended up slicing his fingers off because he knew so little about all this. Tyrell shook his head. "No, I don't know anything at all about it."

"Weird. Well, I guess it doesn't really matter now."

Tyrell was silent for a moment. Then, suddenly, he realized he could hear Shayla's voice in his mind — a frantically-paced whispering of code so fast he couldn't follow what it was that was being implemented, even with his background in technology.

He could feel himself getting angry. It was the kind of angry that led to things like the murder of Sharon Knowles, though he could still see the scar on Shayla's throat in his mind's eye, so he forced himself to veer away from those thoughts. Still, his mouth pressed into a thin line as he watched her watching him.

"Stop it," he told her. It was the voice he used when there was no room for compromise ... but apparently mezuzot weren't easily intimidated, because she didn't budge, not even to flinch. Or maybe because she was already dead, she figured there wasn't much else he could do to her.

"I can't," she told him softly. She reached a hand up, the fingertips brushing against his face. "This is what Elliot wants. I'm sorr—"

Tyrell smacked her hand away, surprised he was able, but maybe she'd just been caught off-guard. "You're not sorry for  _shit_. Don't  _fucking_ touch me."

In two steps, he was at the closed door. He reached out, took the doorknob, and tugged it to the right— but it remained closed, as if locked from the outside, even though the lock was on the inside. In a panic, he locked and then unlocked the door again, but he might as well have been pulling on the door to a locked safe for all the progress he was making.

Okay. Okay. Violence was back to being an acceptable method. But Shayla was obviously not human anymore, so he was fairly certain that if he punched her, he'd be the one coming away severely hurt, just like when he'd run into her arm, and who knew if she'd heal him this time? He had to look around for something to use, but the room was so  _bare_ , there wasn't a damn thing in here except for the carpet.

Oh. Of course. The bathroom.

He bolted for the door, hearing Shayla shriek behind him, but he yanked the door open and launched himself through the entrance, smashing the heel of his hand against the mirror and grabbing a shard of glass the size of his face. He turned around, shaking with anger and panic and adrenaline, the glass biting into his palm, though by this point he didn't care, or even feel it for that matter.

"Don't come any closer," he warned.

To her credit, she didn't. She stayed in the doorway; from this proximity, Tyrell could see that her pupils were ringed by white six-pointed stars. It seemed like a strange thing to notice in the moment. Maybe it was how wide her eyes were; they looked the size of dinner plates. And because they were so big, he could see it when she glanced for a nanosecond at the bathtub.

"If you don't get the fuck out of my head," he said, his voice trembling, his hand bleeding and both hands sweating and clammy. He followed her glance as he continued, "If you don't get the  _fuck_ out of my head, I swear I'll— oh,  _G-D!!"_

He retched, but nothing came up except water and stomach acid, which hit the floor with a sickening splat.

In the tub was Shayla's dead human body, the eyes dull and glassy and staring off into the distance, her skin a pasty grey. He could see the jagged black wound on her throat from where it had been slit, and the congealed blood around it. The floor of the bath was covered in the same coagulation and the waste that her body had evacuated as she died.

Tyrell was crying now. It was too horrible. Much too horrible for words. He said some anyway, shaking, looking from Shayla to her corpse and back again. "The  _fuck?! What the fuck is fucking going on?!"_

"I told you I was dead!" Shayla screamed back. "You knew that! You knew I was dead!"

"And you just fucking  _keep_ it there?!"

_"I can't move it, okay?! It has to stay here!"_

Tyrell couldn't even gather the strength to shout back at her. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, smearing blood across the left one, and dissolved into full-out crying. Well,  _wailing_ was more like it. The person in the apartment above was stomping on the ceiling and yelling obscenities, but Tyrell couldn't stop. How could the world be like this and no one fucking knew anything about it?! How could anything this awful even exist?!

Shayla had calmed down a little now, at least enough to stop screaming. "This is what scared Elliot about you finding everything out. He didn't want you to be crying, or to be afraid of him—"

"Bull _shit_ ," Tyrell spat through his crying. "I'm not afraid of Elliot! I could  _never_ be afraid of Elliot!" He was aware that his hysterics were saying otherwise, but it was true. He really wasn't. Which was why he was so frustrated that Shayla was acting like this whole thing, the coding she was doing in his head and the fact that he was hysterical, was because of Elliot. G-d, no. He'd trust Elliot with the entire fucking universe.

Shayla was quiet for a while. And as flustered as Tyrell was, he was far from being an idiot. He knew that she was hacking his mind as they stood here, removing the memories of the past three hours, and probably farther back to be safe. Already, he couldn't remember where he'd gone between E Corp and Elliot's house. He hadn't come straight here, had he? Jesus, he  _hated_ this. It was the exact same feeling he'd had when he'd come to in the E Corp meeting. The feeling that something should be there, but wasn't.

Had Elliot gone in and removed all those memories, too?

What had the two of them fucking  _done?_

Tyrell drew his hand up in a jerky motion, the glass pressed against his throat, though his grip was so unsteady that the pressure caused a few drops of blood to escape from a wound he'd opened in his neck and ooze down across his lapel.

Neither of them moved except for Tyrell's barely restrained crying, which was a sort of hiccup-moaning at the moment.

"You have to know I can stop you," Shayla said, except that she didn't sound too sure of herself. After all, for all of Shayla's superhuman strength and speed, Tyrell already had the glass against his throat. All it would take was a split second for him to draw it across his jugular, and she wouldn't be able to do shit.

"Get out of my fucking head."

Slowly, then all at once, the whispering left his mind.

Elliot appeared between Shayla and Tyrell, materializing out of thin air. He was so rigid, just like always, every sense on high alert, but some part of him seemed  _just_ shy of stoic this time, just human enough that Tyrell could feel all of the tension he'd had in his body release as he took in the sight of someone he must have loved once upon a time and could not, through any means, apparently, be made to forget.

"We need to talk," said Elliot.


	4. unto your holy hill.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they  
> were  
> all  
> just  
> RED.

By all accounts, Dom DiPierro was the perfect candidate for the FBI. Not only was she able to meet the physical demands of the job, but her morals were right in line with what one might call a "good cop" — she fought corruption on the force whenever she saw it, and she fought for the side of justice, no matter where that side ended up being.

Another reason that she was perfect for the FBI was because she, like Elliot and Darlene, had a shard of one of the Names of G-d embedded in her. This particular Name was a shard of G-d's omniscience, and so Dom DiPierro was gifted with the ability to see far more than any human ever should.

Normally, her eyes were gold with black sclerae. For obvious reasons, she couldn't walk around like that, so instead she used darkglasses — which were essentially useless, of course, since nothing could weaken her sight short of people with stronger powers than her, but it at least did more than contacts did to obscure her eyes. And if anyone asked, all she had to say was that she had a condition. Few people were rude enough to continue prodding, especially when her personality made it clear that she didn't like people who continued to push her boundaries.

As for how it impacted her work, it didn't seem to, and no one currently in the force was too keen on questioning which superior had allowed someone with an apparent eye condition to join the FBI. Besides, her work didn't appear to suffer from it, so what was the point in bringing it up?

Right now, she was sitting at a table inside the Red Wheelbarrow restaurant on Brockman, watching two people across the street carefully. Both were Middle Eastern; one had gorgeous dark eyes and a hijab draped around her pretty face, the other the sort of guy that you wouldn't have a problem bringing home to your mother, if only because you knew he'd try his absolute best to impress her, and if he failed, it'd be okay, because it would be endearing.

She could see things about them. Like, for instance, their corpses on the floor of a building she didn't know. Blood everywhere. On the desk, computers showing something about flights. She couldn't see what. All she could focus on clearly were their lifeless expressions. Full of terror and fear.

She could see herself, for just a split second. No darkglasses. Normal eyes. Hardened by something. A version of her that knew less and, because of it, was happier.

Not  _happy_. Just happi- _er_. Relative happiness was all she could enjoy in any universe, she was convinced.

But that version of her was also in pain. These two people she was looking at, the same ones dead on the floor in the other universe, hadn't shot themselves like that other version of her was probably told. Foul play. It was always fucking foul play. Suicide was scary, but this was a fear regarding an outside source. She wished she could tell the other version of herself that her suspicions were right, but she was outside looking in, perpetually doomed to see but never to be able to speak to who she saw in those visions.

She had to keep them safe this time. She'd already taken care of Romero, gotten him a new place far away from any of this, he and his mother, because she'd seen his dead body, too. Though that had been a little tough. She'd felt the ghost of a presence of someone far more powerful than her, and at one point, she'd walked into the temporarily unoccupied house to see several eyes like chalk drawings on the wall — invisible to anyone else but her, of course.

"I'm protecting him," she told the eyes. Well, the person casting them there, anyway. "I've seen what happens to him other times. I don't want it to happen this time, too. Okay?"

The eyes had stared at her carefully.

"Please," she'd said. "Trust me."

They'd remained there for far too long for her to feel comfortable, then disappeared in a flash of green light. Dom had sighed in relief — all she had were her eyes. They could see so  _much_ , including weaknesses if it came to a fight, but they'd be useless if her opponent was anything more powerful than a human. Knowing someone's weaknesses or being able to track their superhuman movements meant nothing if she herself could only move at human speeds.

She also hadn't been able to tell  _whose_ eyes those were. So if the person had disapproved, she wouldn't even have known who to be on the lookout for.

But someone was looking out for Romero, and she felt confident they were looking out for these two, too, which meant it was twice as important to keep them safe. Though now that the owner of those eyes knew she was on the job, she wondered if they'd blame her if things ended up going south. If they now counter her as their emissary. Their expendable variable that would be allowed to live only up until she proved that she couldn't handle keeping the people important to them safe.

Or maybe she was once again just overestimating how important she was.

She frowned. Focused on the two of them. They were talking to each other, so they weren't watching her watch them. She used her eyes, bringing to the foreground of her vision the names that they were referring to each other with.

The hijabi was called Trenton. The teddy bear was called Mobley.

She knew those weren't their real names. She was relieved; she hated feeling like she was looking into peoples' personal lives when she didn't need to. The names Trenton and Mobley were enough for now.

She was just about to get up and go when someone entered the restaurant surrounded by stationary floating versions of the chalk eyes she'd seen at Romero's, except that there were about twenty more of them.

Whoever this person was, she was someone the eyes' owner was  _terrified_ to lose.

Dom found herself standing up and throwing away her trash anyway, but instead of going anywhere, she stood outside the restaurant, her back against the exterior wall, watching Trenton and Mobley from behind the darkglasses until the other girl exited the Red Wheelbarrow a few moments later holding a takeout bag and looking frustrated about it.

"Someone's  _really_ looking out for you, huh?" Dom asked without turning her head. General enough so that if the girl was unaware of the eyes, she'd be confused at worst, but specific enough to be obvious if she knew about them.

She stopped and stared at Dom from behind her own heart-shaped sunglasses. The hesitation was just a second too long — long enough to confirm to Dom that this person knew exactly what she meant, even as she tried to dodge it with, "The fuck, lady?"

Dom knew it was dangerous to reveal what she was, but the owner of the eyes had already seen hers. It couldn't be _too_ dangerous. Besides, she didn't have time to play around. She wanted to know whose eyes those were  _now_ so she could talk to the owner and figure out if she should be terrified to fuck up protecting Trenton and Mobley or not. She tilted her darkglasses down just enough for the girl to get a good look at the black sclerae and gold irises, watching the surprise move through the girl's face, even though her eyes were hidden.

"So, those your boyfriend's eyes? Husband's? I guess I shouldn't rule out an overprotective mom or something." Suspects usually hated when she pulled the "I'm a friendly cop, I'm on your side" bit, but it seemed like it'd go over better here.

She was wrong.

"Look, I don't know who you are or what your fucking deal is, but you need to leave me the fuck alone." She started to walk away.

"Wait," said Dom, sounding more helpless than she'd wanted to. It worked, though. The girl stopped and glanced back at her. "I saw those eyes on the walls of a house I visited. I was making sure the resident was sent somewhere safe. Someone named Romero?"

The name meant something to the other girl. She could feel it in the silence that followed.

"I just want to know whose eyes they are," Dom continued. "That's it. Then I'll leave you alone forever, if you want." She nodded towards Trenton and Mobley. "Something terrible happened to them once. I wasn't able to save them in that world. I want to be able to this time."

There was a very, very long pause during which Dom fully expected to be incinerated.

Thankfully, that didn't happen. Instead, the girl ripped a piece of scrap paper off of the Red Wheelbarrow bag and scribbled something down, then handed it to Dom.

"Call me," she said. "We'll ... We'll work something out."

Once she had gone, Dom opened the paper. On it was the name DARLENE and ten digits. It was the easiest time Dom had ever had getting a girl's phone number.

* * *

She guessed it was kind of ironic to have something like Alexa in her home when she herself could see more than Alexa ever could, but she hadn't gotten her for knowledge. She'd gotten her because in the whole entire fucking word, Dom DiPierro was completely and totally alone.

Alexa didn't care that Dom was alone. That Dom was the only one specifically of her kind. That anyone even remotely like Dom could easily gut her if she pissed them off, or even if they were just having a particularly bad day, or just didn't like the way she looked. Or were bored. Or  _anything_.

Her life was so fucking fragile. She couldn't afford to forget that. If she did for even a second, that would be the second she slipped up and got herself killed.

"Alexa, when will I die?"

"I'm sorry, but I can't see into the future. I'm not sure you would really want to know the answer to that question, anyway."

Of fucking course she couldn't. Dom was the only one who could, and not the way she wanted to, either. It figured that Alexa had all the answers except the one that neither of them could see. She could afford to be ignorant about Dom's life. Dom couldn't. And she hated that Alexa was right. She could lie to herself and say it'd make things easier on her to know when she was going to die, if only to make sure she stayed home, or holed up in a bomb shelter or something for that day, but the truth was that knowing when she would die would mean she spent every last one of the minutes she had up until that moment in mind-numbing, agonizing fear.

She stared at the ceiling and then up through it. She could see the millions of signals in the network against the midnight black of the sky, intertwining and arcing over her apartment. Alexa's blue signal bathed her room in light that no one else could see but her and shot up into the sky before hanging a right and disappearing from view.

The paper with Darlene's phone number on it was crumpled in her hand. She'd  _wanted_ to call it, but it felt like walking into the lion's den.

 _A beautiful lion_ , she thought, and then,  _Dom, you useless lesbian._

The truth was, the second she called that number she was going to actively be involved in something that could very easily end in her death. Right now, she was still involved in things — she couldn't help being involved in them by default, being what she was — but she was able to pass by  _mostly_ undetected. No one had a hit out on Dom DiPierro. The only impact she had on this world were the situations she chose to involve herself in actively. But this person Darlene knew, the one that had all those eyes on her that Darlene  _knew about_ ... Dom wasn't an idiot. That person was a god. Not someone with one or two lousy powers like her. That person could probably rewrite someone's memories if they so chose, or reach right into Dom's chest with no difficulty and clip back out holding her still-beating heart.

Calling Darlene was like running her finger along the blade of a guillotine.

Except that that guillotine might have some life-saving medicine on the tip. Maybe for Trenton and Mobley. Maybe even for her. Could they do something to alleviate the struggles of her existence? The loneliness of being what she was?

She gave a sarcastic laugh. She hadn't even met G-d and yet here she was already thinking of favors to ask them for. How dare she think she was anything more in this world than a freak of nature.

But Darlene  _had_ given her her number.

So obviously she had some worth.

Maybe.

Probably she was just being used again. But she thought maybe it wouldn't be so bad to use her powers to help a pretty girl.

Or maybe Darlene was just going to have her killed.

She guessed there was really only one way to find out.

She dialed the number.

 


	5. apostasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .ברוך אתה הי א-להינו מלך העולם המבדיל בין קדש לחול בין אור לחשך  
> .בין ישראל לעמים בין יום השביעי לששת ימי המעשה ברוך אתה הי, המבדיל בין קדש לחול

Tyrell had thought there was a hole in his memory. It turned out that there was a cavern.

Thankfully, it wasn't a cavern of things he had experienced. At least not in this world. But the feelings, the things that he did remember, had only half-happened in this world. So the fact that he couldn't remember the rest made his memory much more full of holes than he thought.

Elliot hadn't experienced that world, either. He wasn't all-powerful. But he knew it existed. Just like Tyrell knew it, and so many others, existed. Denying the existence of the multiverse seemed ridiculous now that there were so many theories on it that made sense. It just felt strange to  _acknowledge_ its existence; most people who believed in it didn't spend a lot of time actively thinking about it, except those that were paid to. And knowing that he was somehow retaining memories from this other version of himself was making the whole thing more real than he was comfortable with.

That Tyrell had loved Elliot too, he was certain. He could remember it as a separate feeling from how he loved Elliot in this life. But something had kept that feeling from developing into anything. He wouldn't know what until Elliot got back to him. Apparently, during her frustrated walkout, Darlene had met a girl named Dom who could see the alternate universes that Elliot and Tyrell were trying to see.

Destiny, Tyrell thought, but he had always believed he was destined for something great.

Elliot hadn't told Tyrell everything. But he'd told him a little — the things that wouldn't jeopardize anything, the things that were over and done with. He had told Tyrell that he had been planning to carry out a hack that would have destroyed all records of debt in America. It would have seriously crippled E Corp to the point that they would have been desperate for a way to bail themselves out. It would have been the most serious hack in American history. Elliot said these things like he was proclaiming a death sentence, though his monotone made a lot of things he said sound like that.

He'd watched Tyrell carefully as he said all this, as if expecting Tyrell to jump up in shock, or something. Some kind of surprise. Some kind of reaction.

Instead, Tyrell had sat calmly on the computer chair Elliot had provided and said, "I know that already, Elliot."

Elliot blinked. "You do?"

"Yes. The Five-Nine hack."

"Of course you do," Elliot said to the floor behind Tyrell, clearly disturbed.

And he did. He didn't know how. Elliot had never told him about the Five-Nine hack. The last encounter he remembered having with Elliot was standing across from him telling him about the red wheelbarrow poem that his father had memorized, the only thing he knew in English. He remembered Elliot saying that he wasn't looking above himself, only in front of himself. He remembered being frustrated to tears. He remembered coming to the conclusion that maybe he and Elliot were destined to be gods, to change this world somehow, whether to remake it in their image or to tear it all down, not giving a fuck what came after, only reveling in the fact that both of them had the power to make things different, unlike his father, who had been completely fucking powerless.

He had never been told about the hack, let alone that it was to be called the Five-Nine hack.

In this world, at least.

That's what Dom was for, when they eventually met up with her. Because having memories this vivid from another universe was not something that just casually happened to people.

"Elliot," he said softly for what seemed like the twentieth time today, and might have been, "Elliot, it's alright. Please do not give the situation undue worry. It's  _your_ side that I'm on. Whatever you need me to do for you ... I just don't want to forget you." Or anything, he added silently, but if Elliot rewrote his memories again, the person he was most likely to write out was himself.

Elliot seemed troubled — well, more than usual. "Why do you care so much about remembering me?"

"I ... you're important to me," Tyrell said, because it felt like the worst decision ever would be to tell Elliot that he loved him. Like spooking an animal that he'd spent ages sneaking up to.

"Yeah, believe it or not, Elliot, some people actually give a shit about you," said Darlene sarcastically as she opened the door, a Red Wheelbarrow bag in her hand. "Anyway, Elliot, we've got a new development. Wrap it up with Wellick and debrief yourself. The info's all right there in my recent memory, so you don't have to dig far, plus your freaking eyes probably recorded everything. I'm just not about to say all this with E Corp's Wonder Swede sitting right there."

And here Tyrell was about a week later, staring at his lunch but not eating it, or rather, staring at his fingers, which still had the black bands across the palm sides, making his hand appear completely unharmed to anyone, including himself. He wondered how much effort it would take to undo the sigils like Shayla had said. He'd hate to undo them by accident. Though maybe he was overestimating himself.

"Have a little run-in with Fenrir, Mr. Wellick?"

Tyrell started, though not too noticeably. People usually knew better than to disrupt him during lunch. He looked up to see a girl with blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, in a suit that looked  _just_ the slightest bit unfitted. Not because she didn't know how to buy a suit that fit properly, but because she didn't have the money for one of the caliber he was used to seeing. He knew because he remembered that she was new and that Philip Price had taken a liking to her. He didn't really care about that part. Price could screw as many young women as he wanted. As long as they weren't underage, who gave a shit what the CEO of a megacorporation did? Well, to be frank, there probably weren't many people who would care even if there  _were_ underage girls involved, but Tyrell had at least some faith in Price. Even if he had, in one world, apparently helped orchestrate the annihilation of his company.

"Ms. Moss," he said, in a voice between cordial and accusatory. "I'm not sure I follow."

He could feel the tight smile he was giving her. It was so distant from the vulnerability he showed with Elliot.

"Is there something you need that can't wait until I'm back in the office?" he continued.

She knew Elliot, too. She'd worked with him. At Allsafe. What was it about Allsafe that attracted such enigmatic characters?

Angela watched him with a knowing smile. Far too knowing. He was suddenly very uncomfortable sitting here looking up at her, but if he stood up now, he'd look strange and attract attention — neither of which he wanted right now. He also wasn't entirely sure that he wasn't just being paranoid.

"I just thought I'd come by and say hello," Angela told him.  _Her_ voice wasn't accusatory or malicious in the least, so why was he feeling like the victim of this encounter? "As Public Relations manager, I feel like I should probably know the people whose reputations it is I'm defending." She glanced at the seat across from him, but didn't take it. "So let me know who you are sometime soon, Mr. Wellick." Pause. "Who you  _really_ are."

She flashed him one more smile and then walked away.

Tyrell waited until she had turned the corner and then swallowed hard.

Elliot had told him to let him know if anything of note happened to him, since he'd probably cross paths with anyone who might wish harm on Elliot now that they associated with each other. Which, he realized, was probably why Elliot was so adamant about isolating himself. Tyrell hadn't known how many potential enemies Elliot had. Not that that changed his desire to stay involved in his life, of course. He wondered if this counted as something to warn Elliot about. Was he jumping at shadows? Wasn't it rude to insinuate that Angela wasn't who she appeared to be? Wouldn't Elliot be the first to know if that was the case?

Right. He would be. Elliot was a  _god_. Tyrell felt the euphoria shoot through him again, like the excitement he'd feel if as a child he'd been told he'd won a quadrillion kronor. He'd wanted for both of them to be gods together, but even if it was just Elliot, that was fine. The fact that he was being permitted to remember Elliot, to remain in his life, to be aware of his godhood, was enough. For now, at least. It kept the door open it if ever stopped being enough.

The walk back to his office was strange. It had been strange the past week, with no one questioning why he'd just gotten up and left in the middle of a meeting and not come back, not even the people who normally would have at least given him a reprimand. But now it was even stranger — his run-in with Angela had him on edge, wondering just how many people had their eyes on him. Common sense told him she was an outlier, but he had never been very good at accepting common sense. He felt like eyes were on every wall, every window, as far as he could see, reporting back to Angela, or whoever Angela  _really_ worked for—

No, he reminded himself. Elliot would  _know_ , Elliot would have warned him.

Probably. Maybe. After all, he'd been fine with Shayla trying to erase his memory.

Okay, so maybe he wasn't actually that okay with being the only one in this situation that was a powerless human. Not that he wanted to cause havoc or anything. He just wanted to know what the hell was going on. And it wasn't like his "memories from another universe" thing was any help either. He didn't even know he had those memories until someone mentioned something relating to them. And they were from another universe, so what help were they in this one besides annoying and upsetting Elliot? The people in that universe weren't the same people as this one. Tyrell was the only one he knew whose feelings had carried over. Knowing about a different Angela from a different universe said nothing about this one.

When he got back to his desk, he sat there for a good few minutes, staring at the black computer screen.

It lit up, with a stylized white rose in the center.

Tyrell was just about to put his fingers to the keys when a voice came through the speakers — filtered, strangely enough, as if the audio was coming from the computer itself, and not a person on the other end of the connection. This wasn't a preset voice, though. This was a real person ... somehow.

" _Stop trying to get involved, Tyrell. It's not going to be a happy fucking ending._ "

The screen flickered and went dark.


	6. REDREDREDREDREDREDREDRED

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it would have been enough,

Dom perpetually hoped that if she gave  _consent_ for people to use her, she wouldn't feel so terrible when they  _did_. As if by giving herself the first cut, it would be okay if someone slid the knife all the way in. That was what she was hoping for as she sat on the couch in Darlene's brother's apartment, blackglasses off, black-and-gold eyes searching the room for anything she could use to defend herself if it came to that. Unfortunately, in the presence of not-quite-humans, it was more likely than not it  _would_ come to that. Or at least that her concerns were validated, because how the fuck was she supposed to defend herself against the apex predators that walked among her every day?

Aramaic lined the walls of the apartment, glowing softly in the cracks and along the doorpost and windowframe. She couldn't read it, but only because it was a cipher. Whoever Darlene's brother was, he wasn't someone who was comfortable taking chances. He was someone so paranoid that Dom felt practically blissful by comparison.

She'd also seen the wraparound of time and space outside the apartment. Easy, she thought, for someone as powerful as Darlene's brother. It was essentially the outer rings of a black hole, warping space around it, transporting existence from one side to the other, a wormhole whose point A and point B were only a few feet apart. The singularity in this one couldn't be accessed, though. A good thing, probably. It would take unimaginable levels of power to be aware enough of the wraparound to access its singularity, and terrible, mind-numbing pain would be the only result. Actually, she thought, probably worse than that. More likely, that person would be so entirely gravitated towards the singularity that they would instantly disappear from this plane of existence, crushed and smeared a thousand different times and ways across a thousand different realities.

Yeah, it'd be much more like that.

Darlene was positioned across from her in a beanbag chair that was way too bright to actually belong in here. (Had she brought it from home, or had it just been lying around somewhere Elliot didn't really display it? Then again, there weren't really any places in a tiny studio apartment for something to be hidden...) She had those heart-shaped sunglasses on and was more sprawled back than sitting. An aurora borealis made of softly glowing fire, about four inches in length, was shifting in place just above her eyes as she stared at the ceiling, the reflection caught in the lens of the sunglasses.

"What--"

"Tanning," Darlene said instantly. Her tone was bored, but the speed she'd answered with let Dom know that conversation was  _not_ encouraged; or at least not on Dom's terms. Which Dom guessed she should have known since, despite her power, she was always only ever a tool due to its passive nature.

She sighed and looked backwards out the window, or rather, the sliver she could see that the heavy curtains didn't cover. Outside, the black orb that was the best her sight could do to represent the singularity floated, completely unmoving, the size of a basketball, perfectly still. She watched people walk close to it, unaware, and appear on the other side of the wraparound, still unaware.

The way this day was going, she kind of wouldn't mind being crushed and smeared over a thousand different realities. Though, to be honest, she'd been on worse dates.

She was also a little frustrated that her phone had shut down completely and totally when she'd gotten here. Not even pingable. Like, Darlene's brother was taking forever to show up. Darlene refused to talk to her. And she couldn't even play Candy Crush? Granted, it became a little less fun when the best moves were lit up for her, and the ending for every level was constantly in sight, but it'd give her something to do, at least. Right now, her phone was exactly as functional as a brick. A brick she kind of wished was embedded in her skull right now.

 _Oh, come on,_ she thought,  _it's not THAT bad._

Except, like, she could pretty clearly see there was a dead body in the adjacent apartment. So that kind of made things a little weird. At least it was super old, like, relatively. Weeks, not like, a fresh body. Which was a little reassuring, but less reassuring than if there was no dead body at all.

Her seemingly endless purgatory finally ended a few minutes later, when the door to the apartment opened and two young men walked in.

It was a lot to process in a short time. The taller of the two was without a doubt the person Darlene was confused about, the one Dom was supposed to look into and answer questions about. Two of the eyes Dom had seen around Darlene were hovering near this man. Few enough that it wasn't like he was being kept safe under any and all circumstances, but enough that he was definitely somewhat important, like a treasured pet or something. There was also a certain energy around him — a translucent black vapor that she had to strain to see, and that she didn't know the meaning of.

The other person was definitely Darlene's brother, and also definitely the owner of the eyes around Darlene. When she looked at his face, his eyes were covered by a solid smear of golden light that appeared like a paint streak, and his skin was covered in an ever-shifting array of sigils. The air around him appeared to shift constantly, too, though that was more sudden and glitch-like as opposed to the smooth movement of the tattoo-like sigils.

"This is her," said Darlene's brother.

"Hi to you, too, Elliot." Darlene got up from the beanbag chair, but in a way that made it seem like a big production, like most things she did. She kept the sunglasses on, though the fire above her dissipated when she passed through it upon standing up. "But yeah, this is her. Her name's Dom, uh ..."

Dom had gotten to her knees and then sat back on them, pressing her forehead to the apartment floor. "Abwûn d'bwaschmâja, nethkâdasch schmach," she was reciting in a reverent whisper, "têtê malkuthach, nehwê tzevjânach aikâna d'bwaschmâja af b'ar—"

"Don't do that," Elliot said quickly, alarmed.

Dom stopped immediately, but otherwise didn't move from her position.

"She wasn't that weird when I found her, I promise," said Darlene, sounding as nonplussed as ever.

Elliot pressed his hand gently against the back of Dom's head as he knelt down in front of her. He could feel a shock run through her, but she remained still otherwise.

"You don't have to do that," Elliot said. "I'm not 'as you think I am', so don't do that, okay? We just need you to answer some questions about Tyrell. Questions we can't see the answers to. None of this ... other stuff. Okay?"

"Anything," said Dom.

"Okay. Can you get up for me? Sit back on the couch?"

She did. As she got up, she could see a smirk on Tyrell's face. A smile that she couldn't decipher the meaning of. She catalogued it in her head for later.

"Tyrell," said Elliot, and Tyrell's expression returned to normal as he went over to sit beside Dom. It was strange seeing him outside of the public image that had been created for him. Even the hoodie he was wearing seemed like it had no business being part of his appearance, considering just how used to seeing him in a suit everyone was.

Tyrell was watching her, not in that way from a minute ago that she was suspicious of, but with a much more helpless expression. Desperate, almost. His body was turned to her while both feet rested on the floor in front of him.

"I need you to tell me what happened in another world," he explained. "My memories carried over, somehow. I don't understand. However — not all of them came through, so I've been very confused." He offered his hands, palm-sides up for her to take. "Can you help me?"

Dom's eyes traveled down to Tyrell's hands and she inhaled sharply. "You ... you touched the singularity and ... and you're  _here_ _?_ In one  _piece_ _?"_

Tyrell stared blankly at her.

"We're still trying to figure that out," said Elliot. "Can you help him?"

Dom was still trying to process it, but nodded. "Okay. Just ... I need to be able to focus." She'd rather die than directly ask a god to shut up. She took Tyrell's hands, able to feel the stumps where the fingers on the one hand were missing, despite appearing to be there, and met Tyrell's eyes.

And fell into that world, all at once.

* * *

 

"Why was I like that?"

Darlene snorted. "Why, 'cause you don't like it?"

"No ... because I  _do_. Except not the Five-Nine thing ... not seeing where it led. That's why I stopped it in the first place." It wasn't, and they both knew it, but Elliot had to try and convince himself sometimes that he made good decisions based on the consequences they might have, not because he was impulsive and dealing with horrendous depression. "Like, the control ... it almost seemed like I was ... a different person." Elliot pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to absorb everything he'd seen when Dom had given him access to her mind to see what she'd seen in Tyrell's link to that world.

Dom herself was on the couch still, but with her knees drawn up to her chest, staring at nothing. Looking into Tyrell's strange cross-dimensional memories had allowed her to see much more of that world than she had expected. Parts of the world Tyrell had had nothing to do with, parts of it only she was able to see, though she knew if Elliot had wanted to, had known those visions were there, he would easily be able to carve duplicates from her mind for his own personal viewing.

She could clearly see herself covered in blood, flinching every time a man named Irving buried an ax in someone she felt like she should maybe feel something for, but the only emotion she could see that version of herself feeling in that instant was utter and complete terror.

This had to be the world where Romero, Mobley, and Trenton had died. The one where she — where that version of her — had been broken down and built up again on steel that bent but did not break. At least, not until whatever had happened with the ax and the blood.

Maybe if she stopped caring about her life now, it wouldn't hurt so much when it was taken away from her. Obviously, she wasn't destined to be happy in any universe. Or even safe, for that matter.

Tyrell's memories had been boosted because of Dom as well, though his were just his memories ... but that was enough. Five-Nine. Being a fugitive. The farm in the woods with Irving. The fucked-up psychological orientation he'd gone through. The coming back to Elliot, who had been so frantic that he'd been screaming at the cab driver,  _begging_ to be reassured that Tyrell was real. And Tyrell's hands on Elliot's shoulders ... on his face ... the way Elliot had relaxed underneath of them.

He looked down at his hands, and hen over at confused, upset Elliot.

He couldn't. He wanted so badly to, but these versions of themselves had spent so much less time together. He was selfish — he knew that. But he couldn't scare Elliot, or he'd never be able to satisfy that selfish desire of having Elliot to himself.

He watched Elliot meet his eyes, and he didn't look away. He swallowed as he took in the ivory that Elliot had more and more frequently allowed his eyes to remain in Tyrell's presence.

« I still want to help you feel comfortable, » he thought.

He could feel the pang of surprise that came from Elliot. Why? Had Elliot ...  _heard_ him? His thoughts? He guessed that wasn't too strange, all things considered, but he was fairly certain Elliot wasn't fond of reading peoples' minds. Too simple, for one thing. Elliot, at least  _that_ Elliot, had liked a little bit of  challenge in non-lethal situations. Too emotional, for another. Elliot thought logically, nd while he could also take emotions into account for the reasons people did things, there were too many variables for him to prefer it.

« Don't tell Darlene you can do this, » Elliot said back to him inside his head, an echo of his normal voice, but sounding so close it was as if it came from Tyrell's own mouth.

« Alright. »

He had't said anything about the previous thing Tyrell had said, though, which Tyrell was willing to take as a good sign, whether or not it actually was.

He had just opened his mouth to say something else when a single-note tone bled through the air. A perfect, solid A, and 'bled' was a perfect choice of words, because a line of blood appeared in the air between the four of them like a zipper being drawn. In a motion that Tyrell didn't quite know how to describe — sort of like reality moving similar to a revolving door — a black boy around Elliot's age appeared, his eyes the same black and gold as Dom's, his skin outlined in spirals of snow-white vines that started at his bare shoulders and traveled around his arms, down his forearms, looping around his wrists, and ended curling around both middle fingers. A similar vine encircled his neck, and a halo floated just over his head, made of yet another vine, except that this one was pitch black and dripped what looked like tar on the floor of the apartment, which never stained but instead dissipated after a few seconds of existence.

"Oh, shit," he said. "I interruptin' somethin'?"

Everyone was silent as death. Then, suddenly, Elliot leaned forward and retched, tar oozing from his mouth onto the floor much more slowly than actual vomit, and therefore much more horrifying.

"Elliot!" Tyrell cried in surprise, standing up immediately.

The new arrival clicked his tongue, but didn't look the least bit surprised. "Man, 'cuz. You don't look all that good. That ain't no way to greet Noel. Ain't you heard I'm the arrival of G-d?"

The A-tone came back as Noel grinned, playing smooth as a flatline.


	7. where is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [day of atonement]

"You  _scared_ him," Shayla was saying on the other side of the room.

"Dunno why," Noel answered, lifting an eyebrow. "I look scary to you?"

Shayla couldn't say that he did, so instead she said, "Well, anyway, it's the fact, uh, it's because you  _surprised_ us. Maybe say you're coming next time."

She'd come over as soon as she'd heard Elliot vomit, which wasn't altogether an uncommon thing, but presumably she'd heard the single A tone just like everyone else. Now she was the one facing Noel down while Elliot, Tyrell, and Darelene were grouped together on the mattress. Tyrell was rubbing slow circles into Elliot's back with one hand and holding his right hand with the other. Darlene was holding Elliot's left hand with both of hers. They glowed faintly, the way one might if shining a flashlight against one's skin, and Tyrell could feel heat emanating from them. Evidently, the fact that Elliot was in shock (or whatever it was) was the only reason he was alright with two people touching him.

"Iunno about that, sis," said Noel. An amused grin was playing on his face. "My boss ain't one for RSVPs. She kinda likes to keep her schedule clear of shit like that to make room for the more important things. As it is, I'm spendin'  _way_ too much time convincing y'all I ain't gonna kill ya."

He was looking at his wrist — Shayla could see the glyphs rearrange to form a multitude of watches, all telling different times in different places in different ways. She had half a mind to tell him the slow drawl he spoke in wasn't helping matters, but then  _she_ wouldn't be helping matters.

"Your boss," said Elliot, swallowing, which couldn't have felt good what with the tar-vomit and all.

Noel grinned. "Ion't gotta tell you who that is, cuz."

Tyrell, who did need to be told who it was, was relieved when Elliot clarified, "Whiterose."

"Bingo." Noel drew a sloppy star in the air with his finger. It materialized into tar and then fell to the ground with a wet slap. "I ain't got the hang of gold yet."

"What does she want?"

"Well, see, that's what I came to talk about." Noel flopped onto the couch next to Dom, who looked terrified enough that Shayla was worried she was about to pass out.

When he stretched an arm out to rest behind her on the back of the couch, she exploded with, "Can I leave?"

"Damn, white girls are like chihuahuas. Relax. I already said I wasn't gonna kill no one." He looked up at Shayla. "Alright, not  _all_ white girls. But you're one of those punk chicks, and you're dead already anyhow, Miss Zuzah." He laughed abruptly. "See what I did th— aw, forget it. Such a tough crowd." He reached up and took his dripping halo, then set it in the air above Dom's head. Instantly, her eyes closed, and black marks like tear stains appeared underneath them. "Take a nap, sis."

Elliot, Darlene, and Shayla didn't react, so Tyrell guessed it wasn't dangerous, at least.

"Alright, now we got Miss Nerves outta the way, we can talk."

Elliot narrowed his eyes. 'I'm not going to cooperate with her, if that's what she wants. I know she wants my power. I'm not okay with that."

"Surprisingly enough, ain't about you this time, cuz. See, for some reason there's someone walking around rememberin' shit he shouldn't be. Someone that shouldn't be a concern, 'cause he ain't no god. But somehow, he got power enough to do shit like touch singularities and come away with just a hand injury instead of bein' shattered across a billion different realities. And Whiterose don't like that. Too unpredictable. When you don't know what someone's capable of..."

He was staring directly at Tyrell.

"So what you hidin'?" Noel asked.

Elliot seemed almost to bristle under Tyrell's fingers. "He doesn't have to talk to you. If Whiterose needs something, she can come get it herself."

"Cuz, I'm on your side, but this is gettin' real old real quick."

Noel materialized a machine gun, stood up, took it, and fired more than a thousand rounds into Tyrell — all in less than a second. Tyrell exploded into a spray of blood, a crimson mist so fine that it was easy to tell not even bone had survived, and the world faded into Darlene's screams, Elliot's shouts of indignation, and Noel saying, "Now look what you gone and made me do, cuz."

* * *

 

 _It's been months,_ Tyrell thought into the void. He knew it had been months the same way that he knew his name was Tyrell. Or,  _maybe_ it was. Tyrell Wellick definitely sounded familiar. Rather, he guessed, he knew it had been months the same way he knew that he loved Elliot, or that if he went back to his house, the cute little place in Chelsea, he'd see something horrifying that he wouldn't be prepared to deal with.

He let himself drift off to sleep again.

The next time he woke up, it was much later. He didn't know how much time had passed — just that it was a lot. This time, he could feel a tightness around his wrists, like he was being hung from them, except that it didn't hurt. What  _did_ hurt was the twisting pain in his chest, like someone had a chainsaw positioned directly into his heart and had set it to an agonizingly slow setting. When he tried to open his mouth to whimper, to do something, at least, it remained closed, sealed, like the door to an ancient tomb.

He fell asleep for another seven weeks.

When he next woke up, it was to Elliot's voice.

It was formless, at first, and without light, and it floated over the void. But as the seconds — minutes — hours ticked on, Tyrell could recognize it as Elliot.

"I'm here!" Tyrell called, relieved to hear his voice working again. "Elliot! Elliot!" G-d, he'd  _loved_ the way it rolled so naturally off his tongue. "Elliot, I'm h—"

"So am I," said Elliot, inches away from him.

He opened his eyes the second Elliot touched them.

There was nothing but darkness around him. Where Elliot's voice had come from was just more of the darker-than-black void. What he  _could_ see were the chains, thick and silver, piled at his feet, and wrapped tightly around his arms all the way down to his bare shoulders. The bass ticking of a massive clock echoed so strongly Tyrell could feel it in his bones.

No, he thought, more than one clock. All ticking at different intervals. There had to be at least twenty. More than likely, many more than that.

"Focus, Tyrell," said Elliot's voice from the same spot Elliot would be if he was standing right in front of him. "I'll tell you everything, but you need to help me. Can you do that? Can you help me?"

Of course he could. There was no greater honor. He told Elliot so.

"Okay. You have the power to do it. Follow my voice."

Idly, he thought how different Elliot's voice sounded. More worn, possibly. He wasn't sure. He'd spent a false — what — year? — falling in love with Elliot and yet so little of that time had been spent hearing Elliot's voice. Still, he followed it, grasping with his mind until the very air around him seemed to tremble. Then, all at once, he collapsed onto the void-ground in front of Elliot, whose eyes were that smear of paint Dom had seen, and whose very form shifted before him, like his essence had to keep being recalibrated.

Tyrell felt the vestigial remains of wherever he'd been trapped clinging to him like an eggshell he'd hatched from. Reaching a hand up to his shoulder, he removed something that looked entirely too much like a dark red scale, soaked in birth fluid and wrapped in caterpillar silk, for him to feel okay about it.

"You shouldn't have been able to do that," Elliot murmured, though he had lost all frustration that had come with that sort of statement previously.

Tyrell shrugged. He heard more scales clatter to the floor-ground-void. "I think I must have been born to surprise you, Mister Alderson."

Elliot scoffed. "Yeah, no shit." He grimaced. "Sorry. Darlene's in here, too. It's the only way we could come get you." A second later, he said, "Oh, shut up, Elliot. You're just as obscene."

Tyrell's heart leapt. He watched as bubbles floated out of his mouth, too overjoyed to care. Well, that and the fact that his life had been a consistent nightmare ever since he became conscious again at E Corp. An emotion as human and relatively banal as love was like a grappling hook into his probably-but-not-entirely-for-sure previously normal life.  _You're obscene about me,_ he thought, trying very hard not to say it out loud. He couldn't scare Elliot away now. Not when Elliot had come to look for him after his ... his ...

He swallowed hard. For the first time since seeing Elliot, his mind clouded as he tried to process yet another thing beyond his comprehension.

"What happened to me?" he asked. He wasn't smiling anymore. Slowly, everything that had happened in the last two minutes before he went unconscious began to rematerialize in his mind, like he had to shake the dust off of the memories to be able to recall them. "Wait," he said, pleased that he was for once experiencing something that didn't revolve around Elliot, not directly, anyway. Being in love could be tiring work. "I died," he said carefully. "Noel killed me."

Elliot remained cautiously silent, which was how Tyrell knew he was right. Elliot was letting him figure things out on his own.

"It's because I'm different," he said in a voice barely louder than a blade of grass rustling in the wind. "Whiterose, whoever she is, is angry at me because I'm different. I'm not ...  _supposed_ to be. I'm supposed to be like everyone else, but I'm not." Here, his tone became resentful. His eyes narrowed, and he spoke as if to the floor-ground-void before him. "Just like my fucking father. I tried to do something that mattered but all I did was make a fool of myself." He was far too involved with Elliot to fear crying in front of him, and he felt angry tears gather in the corners of his eyes, slipping from his face and making silver puddles like liquidized moonlight on the vantablack below him. "You, Mister Alderson, a god. I must be so repulsive to you." He brought his hands to his eyes, bending at the waist, pressing the heels of his hands into the space just below his eyeballs. "Det är inte konstigt att du inte accepterar min kärlek. Jag misslyckas ständigt. Jag kunde inte ens skydda dig—"

"I'm trapped here."

Tyrell lifted his head up. "I ... what? I'm afraid I don't understand."

"This place, where you are ... it's not somewhere I can get to under my own power. It's why Darlene is here. But it's like a black hole. We can get in, but we can't get out. It's too much power even for the two of us." Elliot paused, waiting for Tyrell to digest the information. "Maybe in thousands of years ... but we don't have that kind of time. This is, like ... it's a tomb. Like someone bricked it up and we're left here, unable to get out."

If Elliot was trying to make him feel better, Tyrell thought, he wasn't doing a very good job.

"What I'm saying is ..." Elliot got to his knees. It was difficult to tell what he was feeling, because the smear of paint was still over his eyes. "... I trusted you. I came here because I trusted you to be able to get me back out again."

Well, that was a stupid thing to do, thought Tyrell. He was aware that he shouldn't be beating himself up over not being able to defend himself against a thousand measly rounds of machine gun fire, but he couldn't help it. Noel had acted like he was such an irregularity that Tyrell had found himself believing he could do something like that. Mostly, he just wanted to finally be on the same level as Elliot. Except that he wanted to both do that and worship him. Like a minor god, maybe? He wasn't sure. He hadn't exactly had a lot of time to consider the situation.

"I still trust you," said Elliot.

Tyrell rolled his eyes. It was not the kind of gesture he did often, but the claim was so ridiculous he couldn't help himself. "You shouldn't. I've done nothing worthy of your trust."

"Dude, you're  _alive_ ," Elliot said in such an uncharacteristic tone that Tyrell was sure Darlene had taken over. "Do you know how fucking  _mindblowing_ that is? You're, like, you're not one of us, but you're here and Elliot can reconstruct your body. Humans can't just hang on to their freaking souls when they die like you did. This isn't heaven. Whiterose is scared of you, Tyrell. She won't admit it, but she is. You can do a  _lot_ of shit you have no business being able to do. So, like, use those freaky powers and blow us a hole out of here, man."

This was the part Tyrell could see her lighting a cigarette, except that there were no cigarettes in not-heaven.

He blinked and felt another tear start its way down his face, except that this one felt heavier than the rest. He reached a finger up and inexplicably his fingers were taking hold of a silver key with a ring so wide his entire hand fit inside it as he held it.

"You owe me a drink," Darlene said — presumably.

"It won't do anything to you. You can't get drunk," Elliot — also, presumably — said.

"Yeah, but I like the taste."

Elliot's fingers closed around Tyrell's. "Okay," he said. "Let's get out of here."

"What's going to happen to me?" After all, he'd died. Did it hurt coming back to life? And Darlene had said Elliot had to reconstruct his body. Was that going to take a long time, and would it look like his old body right down to the pores and things, and ... ?

"It'll be fine," said Elliot. "Well ... it'll be weird at first. We're going to be in the same body."

Tyrell had to work to conceal his euphoria.

"It won't be for long, though. I don't want to give you any estimates. But it won't be long. Once we get back, we'll be merged, and I can just create one from the backup files your soul sort of ... inherently has. It's complicated."

Tyrell nodded understandingly. Despite them both being good with technology, he didn't doubt that a soul was much more complex than a computer.

They stood up together. The outline of a door appeared before them, like all this time they'd just been in a pitch-black room and someone had turned the lights on in the hall outside. The two of them slid the silver key into the lock, and the tumbler clicked. They reached for the door at the same time, their hands one over the other.

"Oh, Elliot," Tyrell said suddenly, as they began to open the door. "I didn't get to tell you, but I had this ... _odd_ ... run-in with Angela Moss. Something about Fenrir? Do you know what that might—"

" _What?!"_ Elliot asked sharply, and Tyrell opened his mouth to answer, but his voice had suddenly been taken from him, and as the light from outside the door brightened and they returned to the world of the living, he found himself drawn quickly and silently into Elliot Alderson's deepest, most safeguarded memories.


End file.
